


Little Jack Horner

by Gnilnim27



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Canon, and Seb is a grown up, and it is all safe, eventual Mormor maybe, where Jim is a wee tot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-03 12:20:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2850659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gnilnim27/pseuds/Gnilnim27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian meets a very young Jim for the first time</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jim

Jim heard three pairs of feet behind him and managed to brace himself before he was shoved against the nearest wall. 

“Heard you tried to join the swimming team today, Mori-arsy,” Carl Powers said, bunching up the front of Jim’s jumper and hauling. Jim let himself be dragged up the two inches into Carl Powers face and sighed. Behind Powers, two other boys sniggered and repeated, “Yeah, Mori-arsy,” and “Shorty-Morty.” Stupid and stupider. 

Powers was a year younger than Jim but three times as big and well on his way to reversing the progress of human evolution. If he ever lost half a brain, Jim was still smarter than Carl Powers and the cavemen that trailed after him. “Well? Say something!”

Don’t respond, Jim’s father had said, just ignore them and they’ll leave you alone. Jim’s Ma had said, it’ll pass, Jim dear, now, did Jim want raspberry or blueberry jam on his toast today? Some shit advice that was. The problem was, Jim could never keep his mouth shut. Not when it mattered anyway. “I wasn’t aware you could stay afloat with that piece of rock between your ears let alone swim,” said Jim and watched as Carl Power’s hand formed into a fist.

He didn’t hit Jim though. Instead he stepped back and said very solemnly, “You have done a very bad thing, James Moriarty. Don’t you think he’s been very bad?” Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber nod, arms crossed in unison. Together, they crowded Jim against the wall. “I think he needs to be punished,” Powers continued with a grin. 

“Yeah, like with Mr. Rogers and his ruler,” said Tweedledumb. 

“Oh, are we playing Judge and Executioner? Or is this the game of How Much Can I Disgrace the Human Race?” asked Jim.

Carl Powers frowned, probably annoyed that Jim was still breathing. Or maybe he had a much harder time absorbing insults than he did calories. “Ex— what?”

“Executioner,” piped Tweedle-not-so-dumb-after-all. Jim was impressed. His friends stared at him and he shrank under their respective glowers.

Powers turned back to Jim and yelled, “Shut up, Shorty-Morty, You’re spoiling it all!”

“Forgive me for possessing a brain.”

Powers turned an unhealthy shade of red at that. “You’re really stupid, Moriarty. You have stupid clothes and stupid hair. Don’t know why you came to try outs. You can’t even swim.”

That was not true at all. Jim could swim. He wasn’t very fast and he wasn’t very good but he quite liked it. And there weren’t many things that Jim liked. Who was Carl Powers to tell him what he could or couldn’t do?

“For the crime of trying to swim when he can’t and talking too much and… and just being a pain,” Powers was saying with all the drama of a bad soap, “James Mori-arsy will get a beating.” Then, he shoved Jim into the wall. Jim was expecting this at some point but he still hit his head hard enough that the wind was momentarily knocked out of him. He went sprawling on the pavement.

“Mori-arsy fell on his arse!” the boys chanted again and again as they laughed. Carl Powers laughed the hardest, big guffawing breaths that made bent over double like a constipated gorilla. Jim felt the tip of his ears redden. His neck felt hot and he wished he had more control over his biological reactions. Heart hammering, he licked the sweat from his upper lip and launched himself at Powers. 

Jim was small for his age but he was vicious. And he knew where to hurt. Powers went down with a loud yell as Jim tried to claw his face and failing that, started to choke him. Powers friends tried to haul Jim off their friend but Jim held fast. Things descended into a mad flurry of limbs and scuffling and cries of pain. This happened every time, it was almost predictable.

It always ended the same way with Jim fighting back, biting and scratching and kicking anywhere he could reach. Then, curling up protectively as the other boys tried to jab him with their fists. They couldn’t even punch him properly and mostly ended up hitting Jim’s bag rather than hurting him. When they got tired, they called him names and ran off.

If only Jim could ignore Powers and his taunts like half the other children that Powers bullied. Except Jim never could bring himself to take things ‘lying down’ as they say. He didn’t understand Pride, not consciously, but maybe that was what it was. And probably the reason why Carl Powers couldn’t leave him alone. Jim was just too responsive, entertaining in a way.

Powers seemed to have extra fuel for his fire today because the beating went on longer than usual. A few adults walked by – this was after all the public street – but no one bothered to interfere. Probably thought it was character building. Yeah, kid, I had to go through that too. Boys will be boys. Jim wanted to barf. People, in general, made Jim want to heave everything he ever ate and smear it on their faces.

It was when he was wincing from a lucky kick, arms wrapped around his head for protection, that Jim noticed the man across the street. He wasn’t walking away with a shake of his head or staring with disgust before quickly moving on. He met Jim’s gaze calmly and took a drag from the cigarette he was smoking. Clearly, he had been actively watching them for a while and it was obvious to Jim that he had no intention to help.

Jim uncurled himself long enough to shout, “Are you growing tired Powers? Or is uncoordinated limbs a default setting?” He was sure Carl Powers didn’t even understand that last sentence but it didn’t stop him from trying to beat Jim with renewed vigour. Powers’ friends had long tired of this game and were urging him to stop.

“Come on, Carl. Someone’s looking….”

Jim turned to look at the stranger, who hadn’t moved an inch. Powers finally stopped, chest heaving from his weekly form of exercise, face still red as a tomato. “You’re lucky, Moriarty,” he panted. “I gotta be home by five.”

Jim sneered from the ground. “It’s 4.22, idiot. You’ve still got plenty of time,”

Carl Powers looked like he was about to explode. His two friends seized him and dragged him away. “He’s not worth the effort.” “Let’s go, okay?” Jim watched their retreating backs, not bothering to stand just yet. Two morons supporting an even bigger one. There was an analogy about dicks and balls in there somewhere but Jim was twelve and things like that didn’t really interest him. 

A pair of boots appeared in his peripheral vision. Military boots, he noted. Some ash from a cigarette fell near Jim’s hand and Jim stared up at the man. Clean shaven, trim nails, trim hair, casual attire, heavy coat, probably armed; definitely military. “Can you stand?” the man asked.

“No thanks to you,” Jim said, pushing himself to his feet. He didn’t believe in white knights anyway and was aghast that he had almost wanted this stranger to help him earlier. The man didn’t seem put off by Jim’s caustic reply at all, just stubbed out his cigarette against the brick wall and looked around. “People around here don’t seem too friendly. Or helpful.”

“I suppose that includes you then,” Jim said. He unzipped his bag and saw that despite the pummeling it received for him, the contents were in order. It had rained earlier in the day and now Jim’s jumper and trousers were smeared with mud and dirt. Jim’s Ma would be upset but he could tell her he had a tumble in the field and she wouldn’t ask him too much about it.

“You live nearby?” Stranger asked.

Jim eyed him. “Ma says I’m not supposed to talk to strange men.”

“Should have thought of that before you started.”

“I’m going to stop now,” Jim replied and started to walk home. Stranger kept pace with him easily.

“Get beat up a lot then?” he asked.

“I’m not privy to disclose that information to you.”

The man raised his eyebrows and broke into an amused grin. Jim couldn’t help but notice that he was actually rather pleasant to look at. Much, much more pleasant than most adults he knew, which included Jim’s father and all the male teachers in school. “You don’t talk like any kid I know. But I haven’t been around children in a while. Do all kids behave like this now?”

“Do all grown military men stalk children when they are off duty?”

Stranger abruptly stopped walking. “How did you know about the military?” he asked quietly. Something shifted in the air that made Jim pause and his pulse jump, suddenly aware that he was walking with a man he did not know at all in an empty street. Interesting.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Jim said, rolling his eyes. “Your boots, for one. The tan lines show you’ve only been back recently, not to mention how neat you look. Your coat shifts perceptibly less on the left side, something heavy in the coat pocket – maybe a firearm? You tense immediately when I mentioned military so not information publicly known. I’m guessing, somewhere with sun, somewhere British forces shouldn’t be yet… SAS?

The stranger relaxed and started walking again. “Maybe,” he answered.

“Just say yes. We both know it’s true.”

“I’m saying it might be true.”

Jim wanted to kick him in the shin. “Fine.” They walked in silence for a minute or so before Jim said, “You don’t have to follow me.”

“I’m walking you back.”

“Just in case? I think the danger has passed.” Jim was aware that Stranger was slowing his steps to a halt, looking speculatively at the sweet shop across from them.

“That’s Sullivan’s,” Jim pointed out even though it said ‘Sullivan’s Sweet Shop’ on the sign and he was sure Stranger wasn’t illiterate. “He’s dead so his widow runs the shop.”

“Hey, you like sweets? I’m really craving some Mint Balls and you could probably use some ice for your face,” the man said. Jim touched a hand to his face and grimaced. The left side was swollen and hot and he hadn’t even realized. Guess he hadn’t escaped completely unscathed. More than pain, Jim felt furious, the kind of anger that burned red and hot and choking.

“I don’t like sweets,” Jim said. 

Stranger gave a surprised laugh. “Oh, you would say that.” He walked off to the shop anyway. Jim considered ditching him and heading straight home. Sweets and a strange man seemed like some combination out of children’s fairy tale. He scuffed his shoe on the pavement and hated his own hesitation. “I really hate sweets,” Jim muttered to himself and followed Stranger into the shop.

Stranger had some Mint Balls and Pear Drops on the counter and was asking Mrs. Sullivan for ice when Jim walked in. Mrs. Sullivan took in his dirty clothes and bruised face and said sharply, “I thought I said I didn’t want to see you here again, James Moriarty.” 

“Too bad,” Jim said, deliberately running his fingers on a jar of peppersmiths. The year before, Jim and a couple of other lads had a running scheme of smuggling sweets out of Sullivan’s and selling them other children. Unfortunately, Jim was ratted out after one of the boys got caught and Mrs. Sullivan slapped a life-long ban on him. Jim didn’t like sweets so it wasn’t really a loss.

Mrs. Sullivan started to rise from her chair. “Care for anything, Jim?” asked Stranger. Not many people called him Jim, not the first time anyway. He shook his head. “I really need that ice,” he added to Mrs. Sullivan. She glared and said, “You make sure he keeps his hands out of my jars,” tut-tutting before moving off to the back room and was back so fast, Jim would have had barely enough time to stuff half a fist of peppersmiths into his pocket if he tried. He didn’t because Mrs. Sullivan would make him turn out his pockets and his bag anyway.

“Tell you what,” Stranger said. “I’ll throw in some chewing gum, yeah?” He paid for the lot led Jim out of the shop. Jim followed sullenly behind, waiting for the usual diatribe about stealing and what-not but all Stranger said was, “You don’t have to be home by five, do you?”

“Not really,” Jim lied. He should have been home at 4.30 actually but that time had come and gone and Jim really didn’t care. Stranger led them to a bit of pavement because he seemed to have an aversion to benches. Pavements were dirty but Jim was already smeared with mud so it didn’t really matter. They sat at the side of the road, Jim pressing a packet of ice to his swollen cheek and the man sucking on a Mint Ball.

“The name’s Sebastian. And you’re right, I’m on leave.”

Jim snorted. “But you’re not from here.”

“No, just thought I find some peace and quiet for a bit. Do a bit of sight-seeing.” Sebastian didn’t look like he was the tourist-y type. Jim’s eyes narrowed but Sebastian’s civilian clothing told him nothing. They were completely clean, obviously newly purchased. “You didn’t answer my earlier question. Do you get into a lot of scrapes?”

“I try to do it regularly. To test my faith in humanity.”

Sebastian laughed. “You’re an odd one, Jim.” He fell silent for a long while, studying Jim. “if I may?’ he said. “It’s not as bad as it looks.” He tilted Jim face to the side, gauging the bruise.

“Don’t actually have a mirror,” Jim mumbled jerking away. He didn’t like being touched on principle.

Sebastian smiled, looking amused again. “Well, you ever thought of doing something about it? The whole… well, let’s call it what it is. Bullying, hm?”

“Why bother?” asked Jim. It’s not like he could stop Carl Powers in any way. Get him expelled, easy. Get him into trouble, easier. But that meant Powers would just lug his measly existence to terrorise someone elsewhere. Or they all grow some brains and everyone would forget about the whole thing and do what people do. Move on.

Sebastian had lit another cigarette. Jim wanted to tell him cigarettes were death in a neatly packaged cylinder. Instead, he said, “That stinks.” Sebastian didn’t seem to care whether Jim hated it or not and blew out a long stream of smoke, lips pursed together and eyes half-massed in thought or reminisce. 

“Is it fear? You’re scared?” he asked at last.

Jim wrinkled his nose. “Don’t be stupid.”

“I try not to be,” Sebastian said easily. “It’s just a waste, isn’t it? You seem like a smart kid. I’m sure you can do something decisive about it, if you wanted to.” He glanced at Jim, in challenge almost, with that insufferable smirk plastered on his face.

“A waste of what?”

Sebastian gave Jim a curious look. “Opportunity.”

He’d never actually thought of it that way, that he missed an opportunity to ‘do Carl Powers in’ so to speak. All those countless missed chances, forever gone. Jim could have done anything, really. But instead he had fitted himself into the square box of society, joined the ranks of the mind-numbing flocks or ordinary, normal people. Jim had made himself normal. Jim was boring.

The realization was a little staggering. “I’ve been holding myself back, haven’t I?” he said looking at his hands. The ice had turned to water and Jim shifted the weight of the packet between his fingers.

“The key is,” said Sebastian, studying the glowing tip of his cigarette, “to wait. For the right moment. You’ll only get one shot, Jim. Just the one. And you’ll have to be accurate and true and most importantly,” He turned to Jim with a serious expression. “Don’t be seen. Cause once they see you, they’ll know you’re there.” He held Jim’s gaze then turned away with a laugh.  
Jim licked his dry lips, heart pounding for no reason at all. He set the watery packet aside and stood up. “That’s the general idea, I suppose.”

“That’s the general idea,” Sebastian agreed, flicking the last of his cigarette into a nearby drain.

“I’m thinking about it,” Jim said when it was the exact opposite. Carl Powers was filed away for later. Oh, Jim would pore over it tonight, he knew but right now, all he could think about was how to keep strange Sebastian from leaving. With Sebastian sitting on the curb and Jim standing, he could peer down at him instead of craning his neck to meet Sebastian’s eyes. Jim shifted on the balls of his feet and asked, “Are you staying long?”

“I’ll be here for a week at least.”

That meant he had one week to finish whatever he planned for Carl Powers. One week was more than enough time. “Okay,” Jim said and wondered how to ask his next question. “Are you staying nearby?”

“Near enough,” Sebastian said and didn’t elaborate. Jim scowled. “I’m staying at the inn just one block away. The Grove, in case you’re wondering.” He rose, dusting his coat and picking up the paper bag of sweets. “Here,” he said, tossing the chewing gum to Jim. “When you get bored or in want of fresh breath.” Jim caught it with both hands and studied the chewing gum. It was one of those American brands; Wrigley’s.

Sebastian didn’t say goodbye or try to pat Jim or muss his hair. He just turned and walked back down the street, leaving Jim to stare with a useless pack of chewing gum and the smell of cigarette smoke lingering in the air.


	2. Sebastian

“Are you feeling up for visitors, Mr. Moran?” Regina asked as she came in, clipboard in one hand, the other smoothing the skirt of her uniform. Sebastian dragged himself to slump on the pillows, grimacing as he felt his stitches pull. Regina huffed in disapproval before she propped him up and fussed over him like a mother-hen.

“I’m always up for visits from you, Regina,” he replied, half in jest. 

“Try not to move those broken ribs, Mr. Moran,” she said. “And it’s Nurse Devon to you. There are two men here to see you. Now if you’re not feeling all that well, I’ll tell them to go away.”  
“I’m fine.” Laid up in a nondescript London hospital for two weeks with a gunshot wound in his side, several broken ribs and nothing to do, Sebastian would have accepted visits from a group of insurance salesmen if that was what it took to break the monotony. “How do they look like?”

“Professional. All suits and business,” Regina said, checking his bandages. “Anything else before I send them in?”

“Only a smile from my favourite nurse.”

“Don’t be saucy, Moran.” But she gave him a brief smile, refilled his water and went out. 

Sebastian sighed, tried to stretch without hurting himself and winced. The doctors told him he was lucky with the gunshot wound; the bullet had passed through cleanly, missing any vital organs and leaving Sebastian enough strength to stagger across roofs back to his safe house. The same could not be said for the Afghan who shot him. Dead somewhere with his throat slit on a rooftop in Kabul. 

Regina showed in two men in dark suits and left again. The younger one took position in a corner of the room and effectively became part of the furniture. Sebastian could make out the bulge of a pistol under his suit jacket. The older man introduced himself as Carew and took a seat beside Sebastian’s bed.

“How do you do, Mr. Moran?” Carew was plain looking with thinning hair and sallow skin that told Sebastian he spent more time in the office than out in the sun.

“Splendid,” Sebastian replied dryly. “Foreign Office? You chaps are a little slow on the uptake. I was already debriefed last week.”

Carew shifted, looking like a man who didn’t know what to do with his hands without a desk to rest them on. He settled them stiffly on his knees. “We are not concerned about what happened in Afghanistan. Our division deals in more… local matters.”

Sebastian smiled thinly around his surprise. “Nice of Intelligence to call on me. But I’m afraid, despite our shared incentives, our loyalties lie at different ends.”

Carew sighed and unbuttoned his jacket. “Mr. Moran, believe me when I say, your superiors and mine have both sanctioned you for this.” He pulled out an envelope and smoothed the line where it had been folded in two. “Besides, you will want something to do after the army and Intelligence is a good place to start as any.”

“I don’t plan on quitting the army for a long time,” Sebastian said but reached out for the envelope anyway. Inside were a couple of photographs of a man and a woman, a smaller envelope, a roll of British banknotes, travel documents and what looked like forms to fill. “Are you serious? Paperwork?”

“The nation thrives on it,” Carew said. “You’ll be discharged in another two weeks or so, Mr. Moran. Then, it’s to Brighton. Once you’re back in London, we’ll get in touch with you.”

“I don’t suppose you could tell me why me and not one of the hundred people you have in your employment?”

Carew rose from the chair and the man in the corner unlocked his limbs from his perpetual looming stance. “Think of it as a job interview. All the best, Mr. Moran. We hope to hear from you soon.” He walked out as silently as he had entered, his shadow trailing after him. Fucking annoying ambiguous bastards. 

Still, Sebastian had been an army intelligence operative long enough to know one thing you didn’t question, were the orders. He sieved through the papers on his bed and picked up the small white envelope. There were more papers inside with words like ‘classified’ and ‘dangerous’ and ‘terminate’. There was no why or what for. Just a bunch of instructions.

They needed a killer and they found one. Sebastian dumped everything back into the envelope and toss the whole thing under his pillow. He made up his mind when the deed was done he was telling the boys in MI5 to stick it up their arse. First and last job, thank you very much. He closed his eyes, feeling the dull throb of pain in his abdomen and chest and dreamed for the heat and scent of Afghanistan.

\--

There was no Afghanistan waiting for him, however. There was Brighton. Sebastian walked along the beach watching tourists and Brigtonians bathe in the sea or play in the sand. If only the weather would take a turn for the better, it would have been quite scenic. As only English weather would have it, the sky was a mess of grey clouds and weak sunlight. 

With the target only arriving in another day, Sebastian had spent the last three visiting every museum and park in Brighton and had come to the conclusion that he wasn’t very good at being a tourist. He bored easily and although the night life was nothing to complain about, drinking until he was inebriated was not something Sebastian liked to do on a job. 

“Why couldn’t they give me fucking London,” Sebastian wondered aloud. He strolled away from the beach and started to walk back to The Grove; a quiet little inn which the target and his wife would be staying for their trip in Brighton. He paused on the way, looking down at the street where he met Jim. Sebastian placed his age around ten or so, maybe younger. Odd little boy, Jim was. Seemed like he was badly in need of… Sebastian wasn’t sure what Jim was in need of. A little excitement maybe. Or just a chance for revenge. He certainly was much smarter than most kids his age.

A car honked and Sebastian realized he was standing in the middle of the road like some lunatic. He got to the side and walked briskly back to the inn, putting the kid out of his mind. He had bigger concerns. There was a woman at the counter, checking in. She looked exactly like the photographs Sebastian had studied; a little past her prime but still beautiful, dressed casually in a light blue dress. Her name was Faye O’Neal, she managed a high-end boutique before she married Mr. O'Neal, and settled down as his secretary of sorts. But most importantly, she was clearly alone.

“I know we booked the room for tomorrow but I’m here so maybe you could… no, nevermind. I could take a single for tonight.” She sounded distressed. This was an unusual but welcomed series of developments. 

He took a brochure from the counter and studied it while she waited for the landlady to sort out a room. “Hello,” Sebastian said, pretending to notice how upset she looked. “Are you alright?”

Faye O’Neal blinked before turning to him with her boutique smile. “I’m fine, thank you.” She hesitated then said, “It’s just… my husband and I were supposed to arrive tomorrow but he told me to come earlier. And well, it’s a bit of a mess.”

Sebastian shook his head in empathy. “Men.”

She looked startled then laughed. “Faye,” she said, extending a hand. 

He shook it and replied, “Sebastian.” 

The next morning, he would come down a little earlier for breakfast than usual and hopefully catch her. If she already made plans, Sebastian would suggest lunch, maybe dinner. He was sure this wasn’t her first time in Brighton and he might have to play the silly tourist card and get her to show him around. Depending on how she was inclined, Sebastian could be anything she wanted, a young man in need of guidance or a potential one night stand. If he played his cards right, Faye and him could very well be friends.

The day unfolded even smoother than Sebastian could anticipate. Faye seemed eager for company. They both agreed Brighton was boring when by oneself. He let her play hostess since his cover was that of an ingenuous student on holiday. After breakfast, they went to the beach. He discovered she had a keen interest in animal rights and was glad he could share some knowledge on raptors and songbirds that he picked up from the local Afghans, who were perhaps the most passionate masters of birds than anyone else. They had dinner at the pub across the inn and later she took him to the local theatre.

Sebastian came back to his room pleased with the information he acquired. Faye had told him almost her whole schedule for the five days she was staying in Brighton which could change when her husband arrived tomorrow. She had kissed him on the side of his mouth in the pub earlier and had not asked him to meet her husband. Whether she intended to continue their liaison, Sebastian had to wait and see. 

The shower was freezing when Sebastian stepped in but he had endured worst. He toweled himself dry, dressed and remembered he hadn’t cleaned his guns for the day. A friend of Sebastian’s had once said, “Clean your gun everyday on holiday.” Sebastian never got to ask him why because Paul got sent home from shrapnel wounds from a mortar the very next day. 

It had become something of a habit. Sebastian set the two guns he brought with him on the bed; a .9mm Beretta and a Glock 17, and proceeded to dismantle the Glock first, greasing each part slowly and methodically. After this mission, if he wanted, he could apply to head straight back to Afghanistan instead of waiting for his medical leave to finish. Failing that, there was always Kosovo, even if the war hadn’t officially been declared. It would be interesting to poke around.

The doorknob twitched. Sebastian sat up straighter and waited. There was definitely a faint jiggling and the sound of thin metal brushing carefully against metal. He raised the Beretta, thumbed the safety off and rested his finger on the trigger. An audible click and the doorknob turned. As the intruder opened the door, Sebastian flicked the only light in the room off; the bedside lamp and the room plunged into darkness. 

His finger jerked on the trigger but didn’t fire. “Jim?” In the gloom, he could just make out Jim’s small frame, half crouched and still adjusting to the sudden darkness. There were times when Sebastian felt his heart leap to this throat and choke him but this time, this time his hand was actually shaking. He didn’t know if it was the adrenaline or the fact that he very nearly shot Jim. 

“What are you doing here?” Sebastian croaked, lowering the gun and turning on the lamp. He had to swallow when he heard how hoarse his voice was. Jim didn’t seem scared in the least or maybe he didn’t realize how close he had come to dying.

“That’s a Beretta,” Jim said, pattering over. He was dressed in pajamas, Sebastian noted in disbelief. “May I hold it?” He didn’t want to know how the hell a ten year old could recognise a one firearm from another. And of course Jim would know how to pick a lock. He was just that kind of kid.

“No.” He stowed the Beretta in a drawer beside a Gideon Bible and shut it. “Isn’t it a little past your bed time for breaking and entering?” 

“That’s the best time if you’re going to do anything illegal.”

“Did you fly here, then? With some fairy-dust.”

“I cycled,” Jim said matter-of-factly. He looked at the pieces scattered on the bed with interest and found a spot to sit on, swinging his legs back and forth, toes barely even brushing the carpet.

Sebastian gave him a hard stare. “How did you find my room?”

“I came by earlier and the lady at the counter told me. She also told me you were out,” Jim said, looking around the room, head swiveling back and forth, up and down before picking up the slide of the Glock.

“Put that down, Jim,” Sebastian said. Jim gazed up, his dark eyes seem to drink in all the light in the room. He looked angry although Sebastian couldn’t make out any expression at all on Jim’s face. The piece fell back on to the mattress and Jim placed his small hands in his lap and turned to look at the floor.

“So, who was she?” he asked.

“She?” Sebastian repeated.

Jim sighed like Sebastian was being really stupid. For someone so young, Jim could be unbelievably patronizing. It was sort of amusing but Sebastian was starting to see why Jim got bullied so much. “The woman in the pub, id –” He checked himself and seemed to realize just because Sebastian didn’t treat him like a child didn’t mean Sebastian wasn’t an adult, who had at least ten years of experience on Jim. 

“What? Idiot? Is that what you were about to say?”

The tips of Jim’s ears were pink. “Yes,” he hissed to the floor.

“I hope you don’t talk to your mum like that.”

“No.” And there he went, looking petulant and annoyed and wasn’t he such a brat, Sebastian thought fondly.

“She’s a friend. Now, it’s sort of late –“

“She’s married. Not a very happy one but it’s probably more interesting than my parents,” Jim rushed out. He looked at Sebastian meaningfully from some dubious moral high-point that was in all essence, hilarious coming from Jim.

“I’m aware that she’s married,” Sebastian said. Jim leaped up from the bed, actually looking disgusted. Sebastian was torn between alarm and laughing at the sudden fury on Jim’s face. “But my intentions are strictly friendly. Can’t I have friends, Jim?” Sebastian asked, grinning.  
Jim didn’t answer. He just stood there in his brown school shoes and pajamas that were dotted with small yellow ducks, not sharing in the tease. He wasn’t even glaring anymore, face oddly blank. Everything was very quiet and Sebastian was aware that a grown man and a little kid in a hotel room close to 12 midnight wasn’t the most normal situation.

“Er,” said Sebastian. “Won’t your parents miss you?”

“I gave them some sleeping pills.”

Right. Okay. “Jim—“

“Going to London tomorrow,” Jim said.

“That’s… nice. School trip?”

Jim tried to shove his hands into his pockets and discovered he hadn’t any pockets and scowled. “I thought about what you said. About Carl Powers.”

“Got something big planned, eh?”

Jim eyes glinted. “Oh, it’s going to be news-worthy.” His smile was very sharp and very unsettling. Sebastian didn’t know kids could smile like that. Over-confident wasn’t even the word for it. He just hoped Jim didn’t engage in anything too dangerous. The worst this could end in was Carl Powers giving Jim the beating of his life.

“Care to share?”

Jim shook his head. “You’ll see. I just wanted to tell you I won’t be seeing you for two days.”  
“Sure,” Sebastian answered with a shrug and watched Jim deflate a little. He looked unsure and fidgety for a moment. Finally he muttered, “I’m going home.”

“Do you want me to walk you back?”

“I can take care of myself,” Jim said, drawing himself upright and puffing his chest. He waited for a reaction but Sebastian didn’t give him any so, he edged backwards to the door and opened it sulkily.

“Good luck, Jim.”

Jim snorted. “Don’t need luck,” he said and disappeared out the room, shutting the door softly behind him. Sebastian ran fingers through his short hair and blew out a long breath. Jim was a fucking weird kid. Too intelligent, too restless and much too driven. It was a good thing Jim would be gone because Sebastian had other things to worry about. He reassembled the Glock, slipped in the magazine and snapped the slide into place.

The next time Sebastian saw Jim, he had just put five bullets into two people with a ratio of 3:2. He was quite sorry about Faye, certain that she was innocent but not a risk he was willing to take. She had not recognized him and Sebastian had not hesitated. But he did feel regret, something he didn’t feel often. The target was another matter.

Sebastian went down for breakfast as usual only to be greeted by the sight of two police officers questioning the landlady. He ordered his usual and waited for the polite inquiries that would eventually come his way and answered as truthfully as he could. The officers assured him in was just routine questioning and no, they had no current leads. Sebastian admitted that he had spent the day after Faye’s arrival with her but he had not seen her since, apart from meetings around the inn. They seemed satisfied with his show of confusion and concern and told him to be careful walking alone at night.

The coffee had grown cold by the time Sebastian flipped open the newspaper. Apart from the usual going-ons in London, The Times reported only one story of any interest to him. ‘BOY DROWNS IN SWIMMING TOURNAMENT, London – A young boy drowned yesterday during an interschool swimming tournament at the local public pool after he was struck by a mysterious fit while in the water. Carl Powers, 11, had come to participate in – “

He was interrupted by a small hand slamming The Argus, Brighton’s local newspaper, on top of the page he was reading. The front page of The Argus was splashed with the headline ‘FORMER AMBASSADOR AIDE AND WIFE SHOT DEAD’ along with the picture of Faye O’ Neal and her husband. Sebastian pushed the paper aside and met Jim’s challenging gaze. He didn’t need to read it to know what the news article would say. The Times had almost the same thing on page 3.

Jim seemed to have other ideas. “The former aide to the British ambassador in Russia, Terry O’Neal and his wife, Faye O’ Neal, were both killed yesterday in a brutal robbery attack. Terry O’Neal was shot three times in the chest and his wife was shot twice; once in the head and the other in the shoulder,” Jim recited. He tapped the smiling picture of Faye O’Neal in a decidedly un-child-like manner. “Haven’t you been busy. Shall I go on?”

Jim didn’t look any worse for wear. He didn’t look worried or scared or guilty. He didn’t look anything. Sebastian felt something slide down his spine and creep into his gut and sit there, heavy and cold. “Don’t you have school?” he asked, drinking his cup of coffee and glancing absently around. No one was paying them an attention, too engrossed in gossip or reading the paper.

“No school today. We’re supposed to have a day of mourning to remember Carl Powers.”  
“And your parents?”

Jim shrugged, climbing onto the chair opposite. “They don’t know.” Sebastian hummed thoughtfully. Either Jim’s parents were idiots or Jim was really adept at fooling them to get away with so much. He was willing to bet it was the latter. 

The legs of the chair scrapped against the floor as Sebastian stood. He rolled up both newspapers and chucked them into the recycle bin on the way out. Jim didn’t move, still in his chair staring after him. Then, he got up and followed Sebastian out, picking up his bicycle from where it was leaning against the wall outside.

They walked in silence; Sebastian smoking a cigarette and Jim wheeling his bicycle beside him. There were people heading to work on foot or in cars.

Jim looked like he was about to say something. Sebastian stopped him. “Not a word.” He still needed time to process this new information about Jim. Sebastian would be purposely blinding himself if he brushed the whole thing off as a coincidence. He didn’t believe in coincidences. But this meant that Jim had deliberately murdered an 11 year old boy and Sebastian wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel about that,

He blamed himself entirely. Really should watch what he said next time. Jim had stopped wheeling his bicycle and now trailed several feet behind Sebastian, looking small and lost. “Don’t you want to know how?” Jim asked.

“I don’t want to know anything,” Sebastian said. “As far as I’m concerned, nothing has happened.” A look of surprise hurt crossed Jim’s face but he nodded like he understood. Sebastian put his hands in his pockets, impressed despite himself, seeing Jim in a whole different light. There was a term for people like Jim in the army. _Natural born killers._ But things were different in a war zone. The real world had rules, didn’t it? 

“Never again, alright?” Sebastian said, walking over and bending down until he was level with Jim. “Not unless there aren’t any other alternatives.”

“Why?” challenged Jim.

Good question. Sebastian wasn’t the best person to advise anyone on what was considered ethical behavior, having played fast and loose with the rules too often himself. “Because… it’s wrong,” he said, remembering the line somewhere from a film but couldn’t remember if it referred to killing or having pineapples on one’s pizza.

Jim rolled his eyes. “I’m a little too old for your moral diatribes.”

“You’re ten.”

“Twelve,” Jim said heatedly, cheeks turning red.

“Oh,” Sebastian said, at a loss for words. “Well then, you should know better.”

“You said to do something decisive.”

“I know.”

“So we’re not talking about what you did.”

“No.” There was no point denying it by saying he had no inkling to what Jim was talking about. Still, Sebastian was going to be an adult and refuse outright. Jim’s face darkened, looking like he was about to cross his arms and throw a tantrum if only he didn’t have a bike to hold on to.

“You’re such a hypocrite, Sebastian,” he spat before swinging one leg over his bicycle. He rolled the bike a few steps backwards and turned around, cycling down the street. Sebastian straightened, feeling a little bereft at Jim’s sudden departure. He had been building up to a whole speech about right and wrong, something he didn’t really believed in anyway and was relieved he didn’t need to deliver it. That’s it, then. 

Four hours later, sitting in a bar and drinking a beer, Sebastian felt like a piece of shit. He had a long time to think about things and realized he’d basically washed his hands of Jim. He thought of Jim’s sad little face asking him if he wanted to know how he did it. If Sebastian had said yes, he could have made sure Jim hadn’t messed up anywhere, hadn’t left a trail. What if Jim got caught? He took a long drink and cursed himself and the universe in general.  
Realistically, Jim had committed a crime and if he was caught, deserved every ounce of punishment he got. Wasn’t that how the world worked? Somehow that didn’t seem right to Sebastian. He frowned into his empty glass. He always knew he wasn’t quite right in the head. 

The last two days Sebastian spent in Brighton was up there on the list of most boring things he had ever done. R&R never suited him well but Sebastian had booked the room for eight days and leaving suddenly would be suspicious. He didn’t see Jim again but he didn’t read anything in the papers that showed the authorities suspected foul play. Jim would probably be fine.

On the morning of his departure, Sebastian left a packet of chewing gum at the counter. “If a kid comes asking for me, just give him this, yeah? Thanks,” he told the landlady. Behind her, the television was broadcasting the continued investigation of the O’Neals’ murder. _‘… any new leads. There are rumours that the murder was KGB related but…”_

“Terrible, isn’t it?” the landlady said. “And just a few miles from here too.”

“Awful,” Sebastian agreed. He took a piece of paper from the reception desk and scribbled a note, folded it and attached it to the packet of gum with a bit of tape. “Thank you,” he said to her. The note read: _Keep it simple._

He picked up his bags and called a taxi for Brighton Station.


End file.
